“If he’s Tibbits, why did he tell me his label was Random?”
“Because that was part of the plot. By posing as Random, Tibbits knew he would have a lot more influence over you. He kept you from going to the bank, he accompanied you to the Flatiron Building, and he came out here with you. He might not have been able to do all that if you had known he wasn’t Random, and that he wasn’t interested in the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’”
The cowboy scowled, and drummed his fingers on the table. Matt helped himself to a piece of pie, and another glass of lemonade.
“Can’t you choke off, pard,” begged the cowboy, “and tell me how they played tag with you? Sufferin’ tenterhooks, but this business has got me all at sea.”
“I’m at sea, too,” said Matt, “but we’re pretty comfortable, so far, and I guess we can wait a little for the thing to work itself out. That’s the way with most mysteries. If you leave them alone they’ll solve themselves.”
“What happened to you? Bat it up to me!”
Matt recounted the manner in which he had been beguiled into the open country by the supposed messenger; and he told about the accident to the taxicab, the revelation that the supposed youth was a girl, the finding of the driver, the passing of the red touring car with McGlory in the tonneau, the work of Dimmock and Sanders, a mile west of Rye, and the journey through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, finishing with his meeting with McGlory.
The cowboy listened, spellbound.
“You’ve had the hot end of this, so far, pard,” said he, “and no mistake. But wouldn’t the whole game just naturally rattle your spurs? What’s the good of it? How are Tibbits, Dimmock, and the rest going to make anything by their work?”
“That’s where I’m muddled, too,” acknowledged Matt, drawing away from the table and resuming his easy-chair. “I think, Joe, that Tibbits, who seems to have been the one that planned this thing, has made an error.”